Love You Are To Me
by high.fiving.jesus
Summary: You were never sorry for what you did. You have no idea.


**Author's Note:** I just started playing music to see if it brought up memories of a scene. And it did.

But the cave scene is a little overdone for me.

**Disclaimer:** I wish…

**Love You Are To Me  
><strong>(Alternately: Our July in the Rain)

Nights are cold.

And I know that for her, they must've been like that, too. She must've felt it, even if she knew perfectly how to disguise what she felt. I believe there must have been just a spark, one that if I had bothered to fuel before then it would've grown into a blaze of real, perfect warmth. Something to keep my own nightmares away.

It was nearly a year ago, maybe longer. Maybe I just can't care enough anymore to reminisce. To remember. But whatever length of time it must have been, it was a phone call. The first in nearly five years from _them_. She deserves the title change from _her_ to _them_ because that usually happens when you find someone good for you, settle down.

They had called because for some reason, I matter to her. Still, after all these years. After what I did. I matter because for nearly five years, I was the one giving her hope with nothing in return but companionship, feeding her family, watching her back. I was the one holding all her secrets and desires tight. I was the one who knew enough to know that a relationship could never happen, because she never wanted _that_ life, _that_ responsibility, _that_ pain.

The first child was apparently a little girl, matching her mother's Seam looks but she had to throw in the tidbit that she has his nose. She has his _cute_ nose. Which was completely unnecessary, and I think she realized it, too.

"…Sorry."

"For what?"

She didn't respond to that; I don't think she even knew what she was apologizing for, which might have annoyed me beyond belief nearly twenty years ago, but it's over for me. That struggle to win her over is long gone.

"How are you, Catnip?"

The nickname was nearly repulsive, though she sighed in a nostalgic, old-lady manner. He had sucked the life, the adventure right out of her. She was her mother, despite her constant griping about how weak her mother had become. She dwelled in the past now, because of _him_, because she was too busy to make new memories now.

Could I say I was any different?

"I'm doing better, Gale. I still hunt every once in a while, though I haven't for the past few months."

"Well, the prey would see your belly coming before the rest of you came around the corner."

She gave a dry, sarcastic laugh then and a baby began wailing in the background. I recall the distinct sound of his voice telling her that he'd handle it, don't worry, sweetheart, and she had to clarify as to whether he was absolutely, positively sure and the scripted, lovey-dovey words of generic parents carried on, followed by some quick, pointless banter and then she was back.

"Sorry about that. Prue was—"

"I understand."

A silence followed after that and I partially regretted interrupting her attempt at conversation, yet was hoping she'd get the hint to just hang up. Nothing was the same after I left for District 2 and she couldn't change it with a five minute phone call, family photo in the mail, and then a slow disconnect as the follow-up result.

She breathed through her nose, heavy and helpless, like the last breath that passes from a wounded animal as it's giving up, succumbing to its fate only to never open its eyes again.

"Are you mad?"

"About?"

"You know what about, Gale."

"That's the second time you've said my name in a casual conversation."

That wasn't her habit, to keep inserting my name where it didn't belong or was unnecessary. She'd limit herself to one casual toss of it and then it was depleted from the rest of the conversation for good. And that was what she should've done, just kept it casual.

"Answer my question."

"Answer mine."

"I asked you first."

I hesitated, because no, I'm not mad, and I was those months or years ago when the call took place. To be honest, I had never been mad. Not at her. Not at him. Not at their relationship. I was never mad about any of it. I was hurt, I was hurting, I was still hoping then.

When all of Panem and her people fell in love with their Victors, when all of Panem and her people saw a couple of star-crossed lovers, to me it was just a form of rejection. Painful, humiliating rejection. When all of Panem and her people continued to cheer on these two while I faced the truth—_it's not real_—I silently celebrated because she _didn't love him_. She allowed him to dance circles around her, feigned being impressed and in love. She let him change her into a lovesick puppy, something that she is not. When all of Panem and her people whooped and cheered for their kisses and affection, I was left fighting in the background, playing the part of the protective cousin. I never really stood a chance but there was always hope.

There's always false hope, though, isn't there?

"I was never mad."

"That's a _lie_."

"How do you know? Did you ever bother to ask me?"

"You _are_ mad."

"Disappointed, maybe. I mean, he got you in his bed without hardly ever trying."

I hadn't been feeling the hurt until she called me again; I had never gotten an opportunity to really hash it out with her, and now it was all drifting to the surface, firing me up again. I knew that the dial tone would result in peace, _finally_.

The old Katniss peaked through in a brief spike of her temper, but dispersed immediately. Because every bit of Peeta was rubbing off on every inch and aspect of her.

"You don't know what it's like, Ga—" she cut herself off and a long time passed before she said anything, such a long time that an unexpected wave of worry pulsed through me. "Life after the Games… you see things that no one should…"

"I watched it all, Katniss. I know what happened."

"That's hardly the same thing! When you actually experience it happening, when you have an opportunity to get to know the other tributes beforehand and you get to a point where you admire them and consider them your friend and then watch them die right in front of you, it's a whole other world! The nightmares are unbearable. Sleep was hardly ever an option but he chased the nightmares away. And when you have someone's death hanging over your head—"

"And I don't have someone's death over _my_ head?"

Prim.

My biggest mistake. When I designed the bombs with the help of Beetee, they were meant for the Capitol children. Consumed by hate for their sadistic games, the way they enjoyed watching my people, people I had grown up watching struggle and people I could relate to, die at the hands of others who are just hoping to survive, I wanted them to feel it too. The agony of watching helpless children perish at the hands of people from a seemingly different world, children they had known, would've been a great reward, a satisfying victory.

Until our medics showed up. The parachutes had already been released, there was nothing I could do, but I tried. I hoped the detonator would malfunction, break down, _shut off_. And when they went off, when I realized exactly who was down there, when I knew who she saw last, her last thought—when I knew I had killed the girl I had fought so hard to protect for the past five or so years, I broke down.

I slammed my fists into the nearest wall, cursed myself, screamed, cried even. Hoped she was alright; maybe there was a chance she got out… by some miracle, she was okay and with Katniss and participating in the capture of Snow and celebrating the final victory. Maybe, by some victory, everything was going to be okay.

Maybe.

But maybe was never for certain.

And the odds weren't in either of our favors.

Katniss and Peeta, they had nightmares. Their dreams were surreal, yet entirely based off of their realities. They had found comfort in each other, waking up each night in each other's arms and letting themselves be okay again. They had someone to chase away the nightmares.

Fine.

But I had my own nightmares that I had to fight off on my own. The fear of Katniss possibly dying had swelled my throat shut, terrorized me each night until a new nightmare could take its place: Prim's death.

Every night, possibilities of how it happened, what she looked like, the sound of her cries echo and rattle around in my brain still. I feel her still on my shoulder as I carry her away from the stage and send Katniss to what could be her own death, small fists pounding on my back demanding I let her go.

And then I remember Rory watching her carefully everyday at school, studying her every move and trying to learn who she is… or was. Pretending to not notice her and then suddenly pretending she was still there. Giving me sideways glances every so often and crying himself to sleep.

What haunted my nights never left, but I could escape the stares. I could find refuge from them in the safety of a different and new world. So I fled to District 2 where there was hope of forgetting. But I never could.

Everything that reminded me of Prim, wherever it originated from, I made a point to avoid or I'd never be able to forgive myself because the memory would come up fresh and new.

"You were never sorry for what you did."

"You have no idea."


End file.
